


Antediluvian Bones

by voleuse



Category: City of Bones - Martha Wells
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 06:47:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8880046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: The wind hereabouts whips up its own noisy version of the truth.In the Fringe Cities, scholars and thieves can be much the same.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yopumpkinhead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yopumpkinhead/gifts).



> Set before the events of the novel.

**i. the estuary in between leaks history**  
Compared to the noise of the Enclave, the bustle of the Academia felt soothing. Peaceful, almost. Khat leaned his back against the rough stone of the portico’s column, his gaze steady on the Menian text balanced on his knees. Across the way, three young scholars gossiped, their chatter punctuating the rippled music of the fountain they stood beside. A stutter of metallic clinks rang out; somewhere, someone was unwinding a melted tangle of _myethin_.

Robelin cleared his throat, and Khat looked up as the man settled beside him, teacup in one hand and _myethin_ fragment in the other. “How is the Parathan translation?” he asked, tilting his head towards the book Khat read. “I’ve found her excessively oblique at times.”

“Yes.” Khat flipped to the next page before laying the book in his lap. “The poetry doesn’t translate very well.”

“It never does.” Robelin lifted the _myethin_ fragment; its glint sharp in Khat’s eyes as he blinked. “I’ve been comparing this to some engravings in an Old Menian text. I’d thought the etchings were decorative, but it seems to refer to an old story. Almost a myth.”

Khat stared at the traceries etched into the _myethin_ , but following the path made him dizzy after a few moments. He looked up; Robelin was watching him. “A story?”

Robelin took another sip of his tea before he set the cup down. “A story of a maze-walker,” he said, his vowels rounding as he shifted into professorial mode. “The maze, of course, being the Waste, or what it became. The maze-walker was a mage, born, or at least found, in the center of the world.” Robelin was twisting the fragment between his hands now. “The path to the surface--the levels of the Waste, as we see them now--twisted and doubled back, and the maze-walker sometimes found herself travelling deeper into the earth, where the darkness was warm enough to choke.”

Khat frowned. “An enclosing blackness, drums in the deep like a heartbeat.”

Robelin raised his eyebrows. “Yes, exactly. But as she traveled up, to just under the earth--perhaps this signals the mid-level of the Waste, though it’s not a perfect parallel, as different translations contradict in details. In any case, she became trapped, though she could almost smell the sky. The maze-walker raged within the rock that trapped her, and her teeth lengthened, and her nails sharpened. Her eyes glowed red and her howls were sharp.”

“And when she was found, she fought. And those that found her, suffered.” Robelin fell into silence, and Khat traced the letters on the page beneath his fingers. “This is a story of the _kris_.”

“Well,” Robelin said. “Well, certainly, you’ve heard some version of it--with a remarkable amount of detail. The Survivor texts in our archives have revealed several iterations of the tale. I’ll have to request a few of them from the archives. I’m sure you’ll find the debate fascinating--”

“No.” Khat turned Robelin’s story over in his mind, the edges of the claim chafing him. “In my grandfather’s time,” he said, “something was born that was and was not _kris_. It came from the pouch, and it was--” He stopped. The word his grandfather had used wasn’t one that translated well. Not wrong, but not natural. Not a mistake, but something made terrifying because it fit too rightly.

The inflections tumbled without resolution. Khat shook his head. “The story is ours.”

“Hm.” Robelin pursed his lips. “I see.” He set his tea down, then turned the _myethin_ fragment in his hands once, then thrice again. Then he laid it before Khat, where it reflected fragments of light against the book in his hands. “I have reading to do, I think,” he murmured.

Khat smiled true, and Robelin returned to his work.

**ii. the red stone is more tender than stubborn**  
Sagai wasn’t doing much business, it seemed, but it was late in the day, and the sun had not been sparing. Khat drifted close to a fortune-teller, dropping three copper bits into her bowl, not hearing the murmur of her predictions. Sagai was looking in his direction, for all that Khat was the length of a courtyard away from him. Khat considered melting back into the idle traffic of the tier, but decided that would be childish. Instead, after handing the fortune-teller another copper bit--apology for his inattention--he ambled several yards, until he drew up even to Sagai and his wares.

“Thank you,” Sagai said. He was fiddling with the strap of an unopened sack at his feet, but he looked up with an air of welcome, as if he’d been expecting Khat throughout the day. “For your assistance.”

Khat aimed his gaze at the corner of the tarp of the date vendor across the way. “Mm?” he said.

Sagai chuckled. “It was someone else, then, who frightened the miscreant that stole Miram’s basket of beads.” He rocked back onto his heels. “She was somewhat upset, I’ll admit.”

“Upset?” Khat blinked, startled into looking engaged in the conversation.

“Yes, well.” Sagai stood, dusting his hands together. “Apparently she had cooked up a rather dire plan with the fountain-keeper and two young jugglers. Mice were involved.” He inclined his head, gesturing towards the artifacts with his chin. “Careful when you roll those up.”

“What--”

“She’s expecting us for dinner.” Sagai peered up at the sky, squinting at the setting sun. “She’s not a woman to be kept waiting.”

Khat stepped forward to the merchandise, but wavered, considered retreat. “You can’t carry an armful of pottery?”

“No,” Sagai said, bending to lift the sack at his feet, which creaked as he gathered it. “Not when I’ve books to carry, as well.”

Khat’s attention darted to the sack of books. Given the way the cloth bulged, there might be four, or even five. 

“After dinner,” Sagai said. He waved farewell to the fortune-teller at the corner as he began to walk. “And don’t drop anything.”

Khat snorted and, carefully, rolled the clay shards and lumps of _myethin_ into a cloth bundle. Sagai was walking decisively, but not quickly, through the crowd.

Khat made sure his shoulders were set begrudgingly, but he stepped quickly, and soon he and Sagai strolled side by side.

**Author's Note:**

> Title, summary, and headings adapted from Jo Shapcott’s “Border Cartography.”


End file.
